


In Sickness And In Hell

by entanglednow



Series: 13 Days of Halloween [9]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), Grumpy Crowley (Good Omens), Hand Feeding, Hell Is Awful, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Illnesses, M/M, Parasites, Sickfic, soup making
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:09:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27224032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: Crowley picks up something unpleasant while mingling in Hell, and is determined that Aziraphale not see him while he's sick.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: 13 Days of Halloween [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1977847
Comments: 132
Kudos: 450





	In Sickness And In Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 'Possession' prompt, for the 13 Days of Halloween list of prompts, made by racketghost. 
> 
> This does contain descriptions of Crowley's illness (including flu-like symptoms) and the occasional brief suggestions that Crowley's insides are being eaten by hellish parasites.

The first thing Crowley does after handing in his report to Hell, is head back to his flat and throw himself face-down on the bed. Because listening to Malphon and Zaphor attempt to mumble their way through a PowerPoint presentation at the speed of fucking molasses has drained every bit of energy out of him. There's nothing like the grinding misery of Infernal Bureaucracy.

He sets his alarm and slithers under the blankets, intending to take a brief but well-deserved nap.

The next thing he knows he's staring at his blurry phone with stinging eyes, trying to work out how six days have passed. He didn't mean to sleep for that long. He only set his alarm for nine hours and he almost never sleeps through the alarm. Even more annoyingly, he's still fucking exhausted and he's supposed to be meeting Aziraphale for dinner tonight. The last thing he wants to do is cancel, he hates having to cancel on the angel, having to watch the way he quickly hides an expression of disappointment. Or worse, having to listen to Aziraphale's quiet apologies for monopolising Crowley's time - as if he ever has anything better to do. 

He slithers his way awkwardly out of the bedding, where he appears to have burrowed with intent, and then pushes himself upright. The room swims suddenly and unpleasantly around him. His chest hurts, his eyes hurt, he feels cold and shivery and deeply unpleasant. He coughs, sharp and unexpected, and his chest stings and aches under the jolting shake.

What the fuck? Has he picked up some sort of human virus? He's usually better at scouring that sort of bullshit out of his corporation the moment he notices it. He briefly turns his attention inwards, to see if his stupid bloodstream has been getting ideas above its station. Because if it has, he's cutting that shit out immediately.

It's not a human illness. A human illness would be preferable.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Crowley grumbles miserably. Because he recognises the squirming, inky darkness inside his chest, the slow pull on his energy reserves and the persistent gnawing of tiny serrated teeth.

He's picked up a parasite in Hell, and there's no miracling that gone. He'd slept right through its incubation period and now it was just going to drain his demonic energy and slowly eat his internal organs as fast as he could regrow them for the next two weeks or so. Until it was eventually sated enough to break into ichor. After which he'd be forced to cough the disgusting thing up so it could spread and contaminate any other demons in range.

This is the absolute last thing he needs.

No, this won't be a problem, he refuses to let this be a problem, he could still go to dinner. Demonic parasites are only contagious to demons after all. There was more chance of a pineapple catching a cold than there was of an angel being susceptible to what he had. He can hold it together for an evening, then ride the rest of this out with Aziraphale none the wiser.

He pushes himself out of bed and onto his cold, wobbly feet, before very slowly making his way to the bathroom. The rooms of his flat move in unexpected and vaguely sickening ways that suggest someone is interfering with spatial geometry. But he makes it to the bathroom eventually, though by the time he's leaning on the sink, staring at his pale, hollowed-out face, he's utterly exhausted, and unpleasantly sweaty. 

He probably shouldn't have slept for almost a week, letting the damn thing slowly feed on him without him noticing. He feels like he's just been born - he also feels like he's an inch from death.

What he needs is a shower, a shower will help. He just needs to tidy himself up a bit, wash some of the vile sickness off. Once he's had a shower he'll feel better, he'll have more energy, he won't smell like Hell, everything will be fine. That's definitely step one of his plan to take Aziraphale to dinner.

He clings to the sink for a bit longer instead, staring at his eyes in the mirror. He's lost the white and his pupils are just narrow slits. His specially designed bathroom lights are usually soothing for his sensitive eyes, but they're not working right now. It hurts to look at things. And to be honest, even the thought of getting into the shower and attempting to wash is making him feel exhausted. But the thought of stumbling his way back to his bedroom and curling back up in bed is an equally Herculean task right now. He wobbles indecisively at the sink, breathing frustrated noises of self-disgust.

"You're a demon," he tells his reflection. "You're not going to be knocked on your arse by Hell's equivalent of the fucking sniffles."

His reflection is unimpressed, in fact if anything it looks worse now that he's chastised it. There's an unpleasant sort of dry itchiness to his eyes, and his nose is demanding far more of his attention than usual. He also feels hot in a way that's uncomfortable and not pleasant at all. A sweaty, sickly sort of hot that starts in the eyeballs and then expands outwards, making his whole head throb.

"Stop that," he hisses at the mirror. "You don't have _symptoms_. This is in-fucking-excusable -"

He stops, gives a wheezing sigh.

All the shouting has worn him out, and now his nose is running. Satan fuck it, he's not helping at all, he's just making things worse. He debates the merits of sliding down the edge of the sink and just resting on the floor for a moment. It's not like anyone would know if he took a nap on the bathroom floor. It's his bathroom. It's his floor.

Crowley decides that _he_ would know, and that's good enough. But he's clearly not up to getting in the shower, so he takes a deep breath and very carefully starts shuffling miserably back in the direction of his bedroom. He'll just lay down on his bed for a while, just for a few hours to store up some energy, and then he'll feel better. He'll pick up Aziraphale, they'll have a nice dinner, Crowley will hide the fact that he's being slowly eaten by a parasite, it'll be fine, he'll make it work.

It's a long way to his bedroom.

He'd never realised how far apart the rooms in his flat were until he had to shuffle from one to the other with his insides stinging, and his outsides feeling like they might start to slide off entirely. As if he's going to shed his entire outer layer, leave his disgusting insides to just...sort of ooze out.

Once he makes it to his destination he just sort of falls onto the bed and squirms his way between his expensive sheets - only to realise that the bed is freezing and two sheets are insufficient to combat this. He gives a lazy snap, and his expensive sheets are covered by a selection of expensive blankets. He sets an alarm on his phone, a loud one this time, two hours from now in case he falls asleep again. Then he curls himself into a miserable twist of limbs and tries to get warm.

He wakes up exactly two hours later to the absolute cacophony of his phone alarm, the volume of which slices through his head until he can frantically bash it silent. He feels at least sixty percent worse, and that's his most generous estimation. Sweet Unholy Hell. If he even attempts to visit Aziraphale like this - assuming he can drag himself out to the Bentley and drive there - the angel will know immediately and will insist on taking care of him. It will be humiliating and terrible, all his weaknesses and vulnerabilities exposed and raw. He absolutely can't let that happen.

He drags his phone into his dark, stuffy, sheet-blanket cocoon and forces his fingers to type a message.

**Angel, I can't make it this evening. I've picked up a -**

Crowley pauses. He doesn't really want to admit to having a demonic parasite chewing away at his organs. He deletes the last part.

**Angel, I can't make it this evening. I'm sick. Nothing to worry about, I'll call you in a week or so.**

He debates whether to delete the 'I'm sick.' Aziraphale will probably worry. But he doesn't lie to Aziraphale and 'something came up,' feels like too much of a lie to him. How do you hedge around the fact that you're sick without mentioning that you're sick? If he goes with 'I'm not feeling up to company' that's technically not a lie, but he doesn't want to suggest that he doesn't want Aziraphale's company, and he feels like that's what the angel will take away from that. How about if he just doesn't mention anything?

**Angel, I can't make it this evening. Don't worry, I'll call you in a week or so.**

There, that'll do, it's casual, it doesn't mention parasites, it tells the angel not to worry. It's perfect. He sends it, and then slithers his way deeper into the sweaty, sickly nest that he's made.

The world is very wobbly and miserable for a while. 

He's excruciatingly thirsty but he doesn't want to get up to get himself a drink. Every time he snaps he gets wine that both looks and smells like congealed blood. There are now five glasses of it on the bedside table.

Everything hurts.

_Everything._

A long, strange stretch of time later someone is carefully easing him upright with strong hands. He blinks himself out of a sluggish, miserable half sleep, eyes focusing awkwardly on Aziraphale's face. On his beautiful half-curls of hair, and his familiar slightly worried eyes.

He thinks he might be hallucinating. This definitely feels like the sort of hallucination he'd have.

The hallucination carefully lifts a glass of water and presses it against his mouth with an encouraging noise. Oh sweet Satan, yes. The splash of liquid against his parched lips is the most incredible thing his body has ever felt. He drinks the whole thing in long, greedy swallows, which hurt all the way down. His dry, shrivelled, well-chewed insides stop screaming at him, and he feels a bit less like he's going to die.

Though there's now strong evidence to suggest that Aziraphale is not, in fact, a hallucination, but is actually here in his flat, bearing witness to Crowley in all his grotesque, parasite-ridden glory. This is awful.

"Aziraphale? What are you doing here?" His voice is a sickly rasp that he feels more than a little embarrassed by.

The glass is set down, and the angel carefully eases him against a stack of pillows that are suddenly behind him. His hands slide away reluctantly, then lace in his lap - which is on Crowley's bed, Aziraphale is sitting on Crowley's bed. This is important somehow but he's too fuzzy to remember exactly why.

"You sent me a message," Aziraphale says with a frown.

Crowley nods, and he immediately dislikes the way it makes his head swim, he likes the throbbing even less.

"Yeah, yesterday, told you I couldn't make it."

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow and fusses with something in his inside pocket for a moment, before drawing his phone out. He very slowly opens it, with the sort of care that suggests he's still not entirely sure how it works and is afraid he'll break it, before he hits the messages and then tilts the phone so Crowley can read it.

The last text he sent was less than an hour ago.

**Azzirppp im bering eten msssorrrry i wan ro se yoiut face becas provavly gon dieeee**

Ah.

Well, that's not humiliating in the slightest.

"Don't remember sending that," he says, which is the truth. He doesn't even remember picking up his phone.

"Yes, well, you can imagine that I was quite worried when I received it." Aziraphale tucks his phone away again. "I came straight here, of course, and found you like this. Crowley, you should have told me you were ill. I know how stubborn you can be, especially about accepting help, but I like to think you'll reach out if you need me. We're on our own side now, we're in this together. You don't need to hide things like this from me."

He did. He absolutely did. He's disgusting and sweaty and full of parasites and now Aziraphale knows it.

"Didn't want to worry you," Crowley says instead, at least he hopes he says that instead. "I mean, s'not exactly something I want spread around is it?"

"The fact that you have an internal demonic parasite?" Aziraphale says.

Crowley winces, because it sounds exactly as bad as he thought it would from the angel.

"Yeah, that." It's not exactly the circumstances he wanted for Aziraphale's first visit to his bedroom.

"It's unfortunate I can't heal you without also removing most of your internal organs. They're rather tenacious buggers I'm afraid. But I imagine you're not to be blamed. I've seen for myself how the demons tend to crush against one another. It doesn't seem too surprising that various creatures would make Hell their home, and demons their hosts."

"You make it sound like it's possessing me," Crowley complains miserably.

Aziraphale frowns for a moment, then makes a curious noise. "Well I suppose it is, in a way, only it has very little mind to it, so it has to settle for burrowing and gnawing its way through you physically."

Crowley hadn't thought it was possible to feel more disgusting, to feel more like he'd been invaded and conquered and taken over by some stupid lesser lifeform. The fact that he's feeling that way in front of Aziraphale is a misery too far.

"Yes, well, I'm not dead, as you can see," he croaks, feeling the sting all the way down his throat. He tugs the blankets up, so he can shroud his vile body in their sweaty depths. "You can go."

Aziraphale looks surprised, and then suddenly hurt - enough that Crowley feels guilty for his snapped response. But he's too sick and too tired to cope with Aziraphale making him feel like a parasite-infested failure.

"Oh, Crowley. I didn't mean it like that, I never meant to suggest that you were - "

Aziraphale stops talking, so Crowley can cough up what feels like - and may actually be - half of his left lung. It makes his head throb miserably, and his entire throat feel like it's stuffed full of nails, all pointing in different directions.

"Would you like another glass of water?" The angel's hand on his elbow is gentle, but it still manages to hold Crowley upright, when he feels as though he should have tipped over from the effort

"Yes," Crowley says weakly, and his voice is a crackle of utter misery. He genuinely doesn't have it in him right now to protest, or insist that he doesn't need babying. How do humans deal with this? Things go wrong with their stupid bodies literally all the time, headaches, colds, syphilis, back pain, food poisoning, broken legs, plague, toothaches, getting their fingers trapped in doors… He's run out of human ailments and accidents, but in his defence he currently feels like shit.

Aziraphale miracles him another drink, and the glass is tall and deliciously cold, the angel even holds it so he can drink, before setting the glass down on the night table and refilling it again.

"Why don't you have a bit more of a sleep," Aziraphale suggests. "I'll keep an eye on the place for you."

"Aziraphale, you should go to dinner without me."

Aziraphale looks visibly annoyed. "I'm not going to do that."

"I'm just going to lie here having parasites," Crowley admits, because it's true. "It'll be a miserable experience for you."

Aziraphale sighs. "It will be no such thing. But if you truly want me to leave, then I will. Though you should know that I'll just worry about you while I'm gone. I won't be able to eat a thing." He pouts, which is completely unfair.

"It's a parasite, angel, it's not going to discorporate me."

"No, but you'll be -" He stops. _Defenceless_ , that's the word the angel's carefully not saying, Crowley will be effectively defenceless, even in his tightly warded flat, and the angel wants to stay and guard him.

Crowley spends a moment being unexpectedly and ridiculously touched, before the gnawing discomfort inside him changes direction and goes for his gall bladder instead. This is his own fault for making his insides so faithful to the blueprints. Even being a snake wouldn't help with this, since he'd really just be more of a hollow tube full of organs.

He wants Aziraphale to stay, even though he suspects the angel will try and take care of him, will probably fuss over him terribly, and spoil his plants, and get crumbs all over his immaculate furniture. Absolutely disgraceful undemonic behaviour that he won't be able to do anything about.

"Hrnhg," he offers. Which Aziraphale seems to take as confirmation that Crowley desires his company further, absolutely typical of him. He puts a hand on Crowley's forehead and makes tutting noises.

"I know you like to be warm but that does seem excessive."

"S'parasite, making me a hellish environment," Crowley explains croakily. "I'm not a gluttonous Hell beast with five stomachs - so they're doing their best."

Aziraphale frowns, and a quick gesture leaves him with a damp flannel in his hand, which he lays across Crowley's forehead - and that is kind of nice, it makes his face tingle.

"You stay right there and I'll make you some chicken soup."

No one has ever made Crowley chicken soup. This feels like a terrible judgment on his awful weakness.

"Don't want chicken soup," he grumbles, in his pathetic voice.

"It'll do you a world of good," Aziraphale insists and disappears in the direction of Crowley's kitchen. Where there is no soup, or chickens, or saucepans to put any in. Though he still has no doubt that the angel is going to manage it anyway.

He lays under his flannel and fumes in a sickly manner. The gentle sound of Aziraphale humming in his flat sends him back to sleep.

Seven hours later there's warm chicken soup waiting for him. Aziraphale looks so determined with his bowl and spoon, but Crowley wrestles his arms out of the bedding and takes the tray from him - which wobbles alarmingly in his feeble grip.

He ignores the angel's disappointed expression, because he's not a small child who needs to be fed soup. He's a six thousand year old demon and he can shove food in his own face thank you very much.

The soup isn't terrible - and saying as much would be a lie, no matter how miserable he is. It's nicely hot on his throat and it soothes his stomach, which the parasite seems to have moved on from. But he coughs and spills his way through half a dozen miserable, shaky spoonfuls before giving up in disgust.

"I don't need food anyway," he protests. "What's the point, it's ridiculous, bloody stupid and ridiculous."

Aziraphale sighs as Crowley re-buries himself in the bedding until only the top of his head remains.

"S'good soup though," he mutters reluctantly.

Crowley tries his best to ignore the hand that pulls very gently through his hair.

-

It's been days.

The parasite has moved to his liver and his spleen, and it's big enough that Crowley can feel it squirming inside him now, slithering through his insides like some sort of horrible uninvited guest, leaving his flat in a mess. It's no longer painful to breathe, but now his entire outer layer hurts, including his hair. No position is comfortable. He's either too hot or too cold all the time. This isn't better.

It's not better.

Aziraphale is still here. He keeps making him soup for lunch. This is the most miserable Crowley has ever been.

Yesterday he'd heard his front door close and thought Aziraphale had left. He'd ended up swaying and coughing in the hallway, draped in two blankets, calling his name like some sort of lost child. Aziraphale had appeared with a bag of Chinese take-away boxes and led him slowly back to bed.

This whole thing is exposing far too many disgusting weaknesses that the angel is never going to forget.

He didn't even get any Chinese food. Aziraphale denied him Chinese food. Crowley may have gone on a strange tangent about how food was necessary, since he had another mouth to feed now. Aziraphale had laughed at him and then tucked him into bed and given him another cold flannel for his head.

He hated it.

There are now eight pillows on his bed. They make sitting up more comfortable, but Crowley hasn't been capable of reliable demonic powers for more than a week, so Aziraphale's the one that keeps sneaking pillows onto his bed. 

For as yet unknown reasons.

He's doing something in Crowley's kitchen, he's been humming and clicking about in there for a while now. Crowley could probably get up, wobble his way in there wrapped in a blanket and find out, but he doesn't think that would be flattering so he stays where he is, gently hissing at his phone while trying to stop his digital zoo from going into the red. The charge on his phone is going to die and he's reluctant to ask Aziraphale to miracle it full again.

Speaking of the angel - he appears in Crowley's bedroom doorway, holding a red bowl and wearing an expression of worried determination, which immediately makes Crowley wary. He pushes his phone under the pillows, the sound of grizzly bears breaking down his cheap fencing and escaping still just about audible.

"What?"

"Crowley, you need to eat more than soup," Aziraphale says gently.

Crowley groans complaint. He likes the angel's soup. It's good soup. But the angel sits himself on the bed and then sets the large bowl down between them. Crowley gets a look inside, and the surprised wheezing noise that escapes him is both unintentional and embarrassing.

Aziraphale pats his lap in a determined fashion.

"I did a bit of reading to see if I could find something easy for you to eat, something you'd like. I hope that wasn't presumptuous of me.

Aziraphale lifts his hand and very gently taps Crowley's mouth with a thumb. There's the faintest pressure and then Crowley's jaw is being eased down. He's so shocked that he lets it happen. No one, in his entire life, has ever opened his mouth for him, and he suspects if he wasn't currently disgustingly sick that it would be the most erotic thing that he's ever experienced.

He makes a noise, something croaky and helpless. Aziraphale seems to take it as a complaint, because he sighs and rifles in the bowl he's brought with him.

"Now, none of that." 

The angel's hand emerges holding a boiled egg, peeled and white. He lifts it and holds it against Crowley's lower lip for a second before making a pleased noise and pushing it slowly into his mouth. Crowley lets it slide in and rest on his tongue with a dizzy sort of obedience. The bloody thing is still warm. 

"Swallow," Aziraphale says firmly, and Crowley feels his mouth pull it all the way back, sore throat rolling like that was an order.

It's warm all the way down, and Aziraphale smiles, wide and impossibly pleased.

"It's important to keep your strength up when you're under the weather," he insists, as if Crowley doesn't know that, as if they haven't both tended to the ill and dying. But he says nothing while the angel fishes in the bowl for another, and Crowley finds his mouth opening without consulting him about whether it should. This feels distressingly like some sort of snake courtship that no one told him about. Something that should make his face flush warm and his pants feel uncomfortably tight.

Luckily his face is already flushed and there's currently nothing in his pants, because wearing genitalia while he's this sick just feels like a waste of energy.

This is a trick.

The angel is doing this on purpose.

He must be.

Crowley makes it through the whole bowl, insides squirming strangely in a way that has nothing to do with the parasite. The angel's soft fingers leaving rounded eggs on the flat of his tongue, pushing and encouraging. Crowley is having to restrain himself from reaching out and feeding Aziraphale an egg back, as if that's something he might be allowed to do. So he could watch him pull it down his throat and then give Crowley that pleased look. 

But that would probably make it weird. Would probably make it weird _er_.

Aziraphale eventually stares into the bowl, now devoid of eggs, and the smile he gives Crowley is incandescent, almost literally.

"Why don't you have another sleep now you've had something to eat," Aziraphale says. "I'll stay here for a while, if that's alright with you." He shuffles onto the bed beside him, tipping back against half Crowley's pillows. 

Aziraphale's on his bed. Aziraphale is reclining next to him on his own blessed bed and that seems like something he should have feelings about.

"Nrgh." That's all Crowley has really.

He hates this, this is awful, this is the worst possible thing that could happen. Especially the part where he tips over the stupid pillows when he's trying to get comfortable and Aziraphale catches him. They're not cuddling, the angel is in a very dangerous and vulnerable position, Crowley could crush him in his sleep with his very dangerous snake limbs.

"I'll get you some fresh water when you wake up," Aziraphale tells him, and he makes sure Crowley's head is comfortable by laying his hand on the back of it. He even massages his sore hair a little.

This is the worst week of his life.

Crowley grumbles a terrible, awful complaint into the softness of Aziraphale's chest, hand grasping for the vulnerable warmth of the angel's half-untucked shirt, as he squirms deeper into the bed.

Top ten worst weeks of his life at least.


End file.
